Alone We Would Fail
by SmokeGetsInYourEyes
Summary: " This, my dear staff and academy student, is our very own wizard, our soldier extrordanaire and- " unfortunately, "- the one and only, Master of Death."
1. Chapter 1

The room shook with the force of all the shouts of outrage and passion and desperation as the messily arranged group of Weapons and Meisters clambered over each other to reach the central podium where Death stood, quiet and regal in the face of their horrified panic. He towered a good three heads above the writhing mass of students and worried staff, watching keenly and a bit tiredly for anyone to move and calm the wild crowd down. Several students lingered at the fringes of the mesh of people, an odd clump of friends that dallied against the courtyard wall in the shadows utterly silent save for the furious whispers they traded among themselves. A loud shout of anguish and despair as the Meister Blackstar, a stocky, blue-haired teen with a round face and loud voice reluctantly recalled the details of his failure. Death sighed at the girl opposite him's face. She was skinny and lithe and her round olive face was twisted in frustration. The children around her murmured words of shared anger, resolution and comfort.

Maka was always quick to anger, proud and fearless and self-assured, mostly, and if Death listened to the utter drivel that the total idiot that was his Death Scythe spewed like a business campaign, absolutely perfect in each and every way. Not true of course, she was as flawed as she was otherwise, but Maka was talented, very talented and she and Soul were strong together, almost inseparable, and the battles they fought were breathtaking. He had high hopes for the twig-like , twin-tailed girl, once she loosened up and relaxed, after all, she was a fellow Scythe-Meister.

He regretted sending her and her friends off to protect what he should have been able to keep a secret, locked deep beneath the school and sealed in the darkest corners of the basement-like catacombs that laced the foundation of the DWMA like a sewer. But they were among the strongest students in the school. They had, at one point, been but a soul away from Soul, Maka's Scythe, becoming one of his own personal weapons, which would have been exciting to say the least. It was no secret how opinionated Soul could be, especially with Maka fuming on his back, and brandishing one of her heavy-set text-books.

The were children still. Maka was fond of being in charge, of planning things out to the smallest of details, and of keeping every situation under control. Soul liked to fight and fight and fight, to be cool, and do whatever it was he wanted to do at the time, and drop everything else unless someone had a gun to his back, or, in Maka's case, a book to his head. Blackstar loved being the center of attention, being and bright and the very best, while Subaki liked to follow, help and support.

No, they were far from being polished. Death needed someone who wasn't young and stupid and ( probably ) in love. He needed someone who could stare death in the face and laugh, someone who could look at a map and say, " There he is", someone who could take charge, command, endear himself to the masses, and lead the battle to victory with nary a doubt towards loss; and there was only one person who could do that. Only one person who could outshine even his little ducklings of the academy, who could beat him on the battle field and save the world in the process.

" EVERYBODY, STOP."

The crowd stilled with an audible gulp of shouts and angry roars being swallowed hastily. Death peered at the ensuing nervous stillness with a sort of curious bemusement, before "hmmm"-ing his approval rather noisily.

" I believe it it time, " he began loudly, clearing his throat and speaking above the renewed whispers that ripped through the shuddering crowd, " -I believe it is time you all learn of the truth."

Wide, innocent eyes turned his way with bated breath, foreheads crinkled in confusion and bodies taught with excited and wary tension.

" It is no longer looming on the horizon, this is here and this now, this is all of you, students and staff of the DWMA and me, will be at war." The crowd once more erupted into noisy jeers and calls from the silence.

" Silence!" silence fell, " This is a war. A war between us-"Death gestured grandly with one overly-large white hand, in one sweeping arc across the courtyard, eyeing the still figures of Maka, Soul, Blackstar, Crona, and Subaki and noting the light of trepidation in Crona's pale, jaded and nervous eyes, and the fierceness shining from the others." -and the Kishin. He will not be alone, he will battle alongside the Witches and together they will seek to destroy us all… But that's fine, because we are not alone, either. Alone we would fail-"

Cries of outrage rose like the roar of the ocean from the crowd.

" No! It is true, so shut up, all of you." Daeth frowned, pouting in annoyance as he waited for the hissing and muttering to die down, " I have brought you here not to hear you whine. You can do that amongst yourselves. No I have brought you here to meet a colleage of mine, and a dear old friend."

How untrue that was. The man was utterly astounding on the field, many agreed with him on that, but outside he was unbearably gloomy and awkward and vehement. Death couldn't count the number of times the dark-haired boy had slammed him into a wall in a fit of rage triggered, seemingly, from the use of his name, the use of his title, or, oddly enough, the endearing sight of Deaths mask. Death had watched him burst in silent tears when certain songs were played or certain names called, or book-titles read, or favors asked. Creepiest of all was when the boy grinned, which should be never, he was much too pale and gaunt for something so human as GRINNING.

" His name is…"

Silence. The wind blowing through the hushed mashes. The eerie screech of failing machinery as the cogs in Death's brain slowed to a violent stop. Name?… He had a name.

" His name is…."

Again the baited breath. A slight tap on the head, closing his 'eyes' didn't work, sodding, shaking his head no…. Nothing. No name. Nada. Information never uploaded.

" Harry." It wasn't death that spoke, the voice was deeper, rougher, rounder, and younger all in one, and it emanated somewhat amusedly from behind Lord Death thin back. The aura of the voice was unmistakable, bright and stinging and hot like summer and earl grey tea. Death hadn't noticed him arrive.

" Oh, thank you. I always seem to forget. It is quite normal though, isn't it… Forgettable."

" I wouldn't know, I've always remembered it myself. Never got around to changing it."

Death sighed and, reluctantly, turned to face the slip of a man standing behind him.

" Such a shame, you are rather pretty-"

Bright emerald eyes glimmered nastily at him and the polite, tired smile ghosted across his pale, drawn features for but an instant before being swallowed by the shadows of his dark, scraggly black hair. The man slouched in his baggy shirt and ripped jeans, having appeared silently, or, semi-silently, behind Death the moment the tall, black-robed Meister had conjured an image of him in his head, looking tired and out of place in the middle of the gathering of tense, wide-eyed, gaping-mouthed students ( and staff ). He looked no older than seventeen.

" -Master."

The bow was low and sweeping, the tip of Deaths elbow brushing the floor at his Masters feet for a single instant before Harry's warm white hand was pressed on his shoulder with a sigh of aknoledgement. Death sprang back up, intent on ignoring the yawning figure behind him in favor of his cute, cute students. His cute, cute student who were staring at him in shock and astonishment, jaws slack in amazement and silent for the entire, confusing exchange.

" WHO THE HELL IS THIS BASTARD?!" It was, predictably, an infuriated Blackstar, his eyes narrowed suspiciously and finger pointed accusingly at Harry's lounging silhouette. Death took the opportunity, however to sweep to the side, hands out as if showing off a flashy piece of jewelry.

" This, my dear staff and academy student, is our very own wizard, our soldier extrordanaire and- " unfortunately, "- the one and only, Master of Death."


	2. Chapter 2: No Footsteps

**Sorry for the stupidly long wait, and the short chapter!**

**I would like to thank duskrider, LunarCatNinja, tail tale, pkfox100, Guest, crystal2240, FlopsyTheStingyDingo (For the PM also, I wouldn't have gotten off my ass otherwise), ChaoticallyAwkward, and blacklightningwolf for reviewing- makes me feel so loved- even if that might be a delusion~!**

**Also, everyone who followed and favorited me- I really, really appreciate this. This story has gotten so much love! On with the show now…too much me time…**

**DICLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING**

**-2-**

"They are the students of my academy! They have the right-!"

"They have the right to die?! They have the right to hold their bleeding friends in their arms as the light slips from their eyes?!"

"THEIR LIVES ARE THE ONES BEING THREATENED, THEY HAVE THE RIGTH TO FIGHT BACK, HARRY!"

"THEY HAVE THE RIGHT TO WITNESS WAR, AND THEN MAKE THEIR OWN FUCKING CHOICE."

Harry's arm, which had been knotted in the front of Lord' Deaths robes loosed and fell, and with a look of utter disdain, the wizard stepped backwards. He stared down his nose at the man, and hissed softly through his teeth; as if he was speaking, but the words had been swallowed by the sibilant, textured overtones of his gravely throat. Immediately, his entire frame wavered, as if the wind had blown straight through him. The man beneath him lurched forwards, but a tennis-clad foot slammed abruptly into his chest, and he skidded backwards.

"Harry!" he roared, "Don't you dare walk away from this!"

"Watch me, Lord." snarled the boy, " Call me again when you are willing to listen to sense."

The last word dissolved into a guttural hiss- and with a frightening roar, he was swept away by a sudden gust of wind, the colors of his hair and flaming emerald eyes bleeding into nothing, like dust swept away by a harsh current- just as the Lord Death lunged forward with a muffled, squeaky curse of frustration. His outstretched hand swept through the phantoms smirking, cold cheek, leaving his large white hands empty- and he fell harshly onto his knees. The whipping wind swallowed his last, desperate howl of 'Harry!'.

The sudden gale tapered off with a soft whistle, flaming until the last, fluttering edges of Lord Death's ghostly black cloak had settled around him, pooled like dark despair over the floor.

"Damndamndamn. Harry, you fool!" he growled lowly, shaking around his clenched fists. The ivory mask disappeared beneath a flutter of cloak as one skinny black arm jerked up and then slammed back down, smashing through thin layer of concrete. " Why can't you see we have no choice?!" he bit out, and as if his own words sparked a defiant conviction, the Lord threw back his broad shoulders.

He still did not stand, but his frame melted into a somewhat more comfortable position, poised over the floor in a crouch, fisted glove still poised in the middle of a small tuft of dusty smoke, "I do not have a choice." he said again, to the room, to himself, determination thready in his voice, " WE have no choice- we have enemies, we have allies, we are at war."

"Do you hear me Harry, WE HAVE NO CHOICE!"

Kidd shivered from behind the door, his hands clenching in an effort to sooth the spasms wracking his fists. His guns inside of his hands felt cold and slick with nervous sweat, and the rest of him so HOT by comparison. Oh, how he wished he and enough courage to go in there and confront that wimpy-looking man who dared to confront his Father in this manner- to go farther than that, and assault him… The insolence, and more than that, the cold, deadly, fury the guy held in his every word, was so unlike his first impression- it was completely unnerving.

And he had Kidd shaking against the walls.

Harry had seemed at first, to be a gentle person, herded by Lord Death through the pressing chaos of the crowd to the personal chambers with hunched shoulders and arms elbow deep in his cavernous pockets. His gaze had been riveted nervously on his shoes and he was jostled forcefully through the throng, twitching as accusations and frantic questions and furious calls were flung his way- and Death the Kidd had very carefully supported his father in that- shoving the enthusiastic crowd out of the way and dealing ruthlessly with weapons and bits of meister waved too close to the guest for comfort.

His face, young and tired, had broken into a quiet but sincere smile at his vague introduction, and he had been genuinely relieved when he had been tossed inside the doors and the crowd locked OUT.

Then Death had began talking to Harry, and things had all fallen apart.

Kidd remembered the dawning coldness spread like ice across those soft features, the crushed cup of tea falling from bleeding white fingertips to shatter across the floor. Bright, bottle-green eyes darkening with fire, cheeks draining of color, entire body tensing and straightening until his petite frame seemed to the tower, quivering with indignant fury, anger and bloodlust unseen by Death as he rambled on.

His cloaked back was turned towards Harry as he gazed soulfully at his mirror, posture and gestures dramatic and mysterious, as if this was all a GAME, and heck, no-one had seemed to mind, but Harry seemed to, because in the next instant he had strode over to Lord Death and spun him around, small hands finding their way to the front of the taller mans robes and fisting there, and Harry had ROARED.

The power had been shocking, like a corona of flames bursting into flight around him, blotting the world out with streaks of blinding gold-white.

Flames that had pulled at something deep inside of Kidd, like nausea, pulling at his gut, and it had taken all of his effort not to heave right then and there, emptying his stomach of his breakfast. Everything had swirled around inside of him, that buzzing hot energy entering him, streaming in through his tearducts, and nose and mouth and ears, and moving inside of him- like burning snakes, moving him, HURTING him.

He blacked out for a while, ears still ringing from Harry's furious roar, and his own, throaty scream of pain and surprise, surrounding blearily to the darkness, unable to even cough any more. That amount of time, he couldn't remember, whether or not someone had pulled him front he room, or he had crawled there himself, but he and woken, slumped against the door, too terrified to even check if a fight had happened, if Harry was still in their with his father, if his after was still ALIVE…

He opened the door to the dark silhouette of his father, pacing across the floor, whole and alive, and _alone_. 'Ignore the relief…ignore it…' he thought furiously, but still feeling weak in the knees from where he clasped the handle of the door.

"…What happened." he croaked, but his father didn't turn towards him, didn't stop pacing swiftly from one need of the room to the other, " Dad?"

"Harry left."

Kidd let his eyes slide shut as he bowed, shakily, and tread softly from the room, harshly turning his head from the scorch marks adorning the walls and the mini crater in the middle of the floor. The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Kidd clenched one, pale hand, letting up only to let his weapons morph back into the pair of sisters he knew and loved. He ignored their fluttering, worried hands, their forced, boisterous chatter, the sound of their uneven footsteps dancing around his angry ones. He clenched his fists, and opened his eyes, remembering that frightful power- the heat and light, the caress of terror blooming behind his eyes. He remembered that fractured green gaze, alight his righteous violence, hair like a midnight storm, whipping around bloodthirsty features.

He needed to get stronger.

It was a cold, snowy day, and Maka suddenly felt that she was going to come across something cliche. The sky was a soft, feathered gray, the road and alleys paved slightly with a silver-white sheen of frost, broken by trails of footsteps, but empty in most direction, save for Maka, bundled up in a thick red scarf and a heavy grey jacket, her groceries clutched tightly to her chest, and breath pluming in front of her in small white clouds. A chill traveled down her spine, darkening and sharpening her eyes, ripping through her fingers with a violent need- and no reason beside puzzling dread- to hold SOUL in that moment, to have a weapon, any weapon.

Then.

A shadow melted out from an alley, darkness stretching and snapping over a swell of human shape and features. Streams of frayed black inkiness felt to the snow like flailing tentacles and retracted slowly into the alley, leaving the short, swaying form of a young man behind. Maka froze. The man's head turned. Dark hair, she noted absently, the majority of her brain cursing and flailing and trying to stay really, really, silent all at once (Idon'thaveaweaponIdon'thaveaweaponSoul!).

Dark hair and bright eyes. The mans curious gaze found hers and bored into her.

"Who-" she suddenly felt like she was having a rather heavy headache, and dropped her groceries. The paper bag crumpled messily onto it's side, soaking through and spilling out her bag of radishes. Her eyes were glues to the mans, and she watched helplessly, angrily, as he took several measured steps forward.

"Are you a meister?" he asked softly, and she felt the ridiculous need to stiffen- for some reason though she remained…frozen.

"I-" _Yes. _The mans soft smile brightened and grew wider, and the headache swiftly abated into a steady throb at the back of he head. She still couldn't move, and her mouth wasn't working quite right, but her wavering fingertips raised jerkily to clutch at the mans sleeve -he wore a summer shirt, tattered and covered in foodstains- and managed a shaky, " Do I know you."

It didn't cross her mind that it sounded a bit flirtatious, but his next actions certainly made her hope it hadn't been. "Yes, yes, you do know me." he said gently, " My name is Harry." He bent down and picked up her groceries, which was weird, because Maka was left staring at the space he had just occupied, unable to move her gaze anywhere else. The cold began seeping into her boots.

Harry straightened, after a bit, lips flashing into sheepish smile as he handed her bag back to her- dry and tingling pleasantly with warmth where her arms had wrapped mechanically and of their own accord around them." I'm sorry about that, by the way, " he murmured, " You probably don't remember me, don't try too hard."

But she could.

She could remember her own shock, and green eyes and a pale white hand elegantly brushing the dark line of a shoulder, like some ancient ritual. Nothing much more than that. She said so, the words difficult to push out, and the man momentarily looked surprised. He was an ally- though the thought terrified her more than it should have.

"Oh. Okay then." he frowned, " Can you pass a message on for me then, Meister, to lord Death?"

She didn't nod, tentatively or not- because the man obviously wasn't human, and who knows, though he seemed nice enough beyond the whole intimidation-freezing-controll-thing (he HAD dried her radishes), that might just be a load of crap. He could even be an alien, for all Maka knew. He seemed to take her silence for 'yes' though.

"Thanks. Just tell him that…I'm willing to….talk. Just maybe not to him." he chuckled lightly, " He makes me MAD, sometimes. Here-" One white hand brushed gently across the curve of the scarf, where it wrapped tightly around her neck, " You look cold."

A burning warmth slowly spread across her face and skin, her hair, which was slippery with wetness, her soaked boots and quivering legs- like a breath, ghosting over her and leaving her feeling warmed and dry. Maka felt her eyes widen, saw, intimately, and with awe, as the mans green eyes- which still drilled into hers- glowed with glimmering emerald sparks, like magic, dancing around pitch pupils. Then the light dimmed, the hand reluctantly snapped away from her buzzing, suddenly sweaty skin, and with a whisper, haunting and sibilant, the shadows had swallowed him up, leaving behind a pristine world, weak legs, and,

No footprints.

"What sort of person do you suppose this "master of Death" guy is- a quack?"

"A menace to society."

"…Oh?"

"I met him once- once was enough. Any more and I would have started killing young children before they had to witness the world."

"That bad? Depressing sort, then?"

"Nah. He was…terrifying."

"…"

"I heard that he…showed….I pray that we will be safe. Lord knows- I pray…"

**FIN. Sorry, short chapter! ALSO UNEDITED- I'M VERY BAD AT SUCH THINGS. I apologize…:(**


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